An Injury to One (2002, Travis Wilkerson) (Patreon)

76/100

Second viewing, last seen 2004. Never wrote anything at the time, though I briefly engaged in a heated debate on the nerd group regarding the film's didacticism—a truly absurd complaint to make about unapologetic agitprop. Which wouldn't ordinarily be my thing, but I find Wilkerson's hard-boiled voiceover narration so hypnotic that he could probably sell me on abolishing (as opposed to merely defunding) the police. Also hugely appreciate seeing Godard-esque formalism—talismanic imagery, strategic repetition, copious use of onscreen text—yoked to a comprehensible Marxist argument for once. At 53 minutes, An Injury to One is no longer than it needs to be, and remains deliberately measured at all times...yet there's an undercurrent of white-hot anger that almost seems to necessitate regular cool-off periods, which is where the folk songs come in. (That we see rather than hear the lyrics reinforces a sense of restraint, as if actually singing would be too dangerous.) Interesting now to see how this film ties into Bisbee '17, even though they recount events in two different states; Greene's reflexivity is at once more ambitious and less visceral than Wilkerson's "Just the propaganda, Ma'am" approach, though maybe that just comes down to me preferring my lectures raw, with a touch of bitter poetry. Or it really might simply be Wilkerson's voice. He should do audiobooks.

What with 16 years having passed since I last saw this (18 years since it premiered), I checked to see what's since become of the Berkeley Pit, which I believe was a Superfund site even back then. Turns out they're only just getting around to aggressive clean-up measures now—I found this Washington Post article from February, just a few weeks before the world went to shit. (Also, another flock of migrating geese apparently died in the pit after Injury was made. And now there's...a gift shop?) That the problem was blithely ignored for another 15 years retroactively reinforces Wilkerson's stoic fury, while also revealing how little impact a barely-seen documentary has (though admittedly the Pit isn't Injury's primary focus). Also, I looked up 7-3-77 and was legitimately stunned and horrified to discover something that Wilkerson inexplicably fails to mention: Those numbers—which, whatever their uncertain origin/meaning, were definitely deployed as a threat by vigilante mobs, and not just in Frank Little's lynching—adorn the shoulder patches of Montana's Highway Patrol to this day. And they're printed on the bottle caps of certain Montana-brewed beers, like some hateful version of the Rolling Rock "33." While we're finally getting rid of Confederate monuments, maybe let's ditch the symbolic "Stop agitating or else" digits, too.